Page 11 of The Risk Taker

I let out a long breath, my shoulders sinking as I flop back onto the bed. The mattress groans under my weight, and I stare up at the ceiling, trying not to replay that look in Nathan’s eyes. Like he actually gave a damn. Like he expected something from me.

The thought makes my chest jump, which pisses me off even more. I drag a pillow over my face and groan into it, hoping it’ll smother whatever this is. It doesn’t. Nothing ever shuts him up once he’s in my head, circling around like some moral compass I never asked for.

I rip the pillow off my face and toss it across the room, watching it hit the wall and slump to the floor. “Great,” I mutter. “Now I’m arguing with furniture.”

It’s ridiculous how much space he takes up in my head. He’s the last person I should be thinking about. The guy’s woundtighter than a drum, probably hasn’t missed a curfew since birth. And yet here I am, lying here, wondering if maybe he’s right.

I swing my legs off the bed and grab my keys from the dresser, twirling them around my fingers just to have something to do. I could still go out. Should, probably. The plan was to drink too much, flirt with someone I won’t remember, and forget all about the way Nathan looked at me like I was capable of something better.

But when I catch my reflection in the mirror, everything in me stalls. I look ready for a night out, but my brain’s already checked out. I don’t even know if it’s because of the conversation or because, for the first time, Nathan didn’t sound like he was lecturing me. He sounded… disappointed. Like he wanted me to prove him wrong.

With a frustrated sigh, I strip off my jacket, collapsing backward onto my bed.

This isn’t me. I don’t stay in. I don’t listen. But the echo of his voice—don’t drag the team down—keeps threading through my head.

Still, I can’t shake him. Can’t shake that stupid steady stare, or the way he looked at me like I wasn’t just the team screw-up, like maybe there’s still something left worth fixing.

And that’s the problem. Because I can’t remember the last time someone looked at me that way. Don’t remember the last time someone expected something of me, and the thought of disappointing him makes my stomach churn.

I sit up in my bed, kick off my shoes, and turn on the TV, knowing I’m not going out tonight.

4

NATHAN

Mom’s already in the kitchen when I get home, one hand stirring something on the stove, the other holding her phone, while music plays low from the speaker by the window.

“Wash your hands,” she says without turning around.

I huff a laugh and do as I’m told. “Hi to you too,” I mumble, rolling up my sleeves and running the tap.

Her expression softens when I finally make my way over to her. “Hi, sweetheart,” she says, reaching out to squeeze my wrist before flipping the spoon in the pot. “Sorry—I’m running a little behind on dinner tonight. Can you grab a cutting board and start on the peppers and onions?” She turns back to the stove but glances at me again, raising a finger. “Thin strips. Not chunks.”

“Yeah, I know,” I say, drying my hands on the dish towel before grabbing the board from the counter.

It’s muscle memory at this point. I’ve been helping her in the kitchen since I was a kid. She’d let me stir the sauce or tell me to get the ingredients for her, and somewhere along the way I learned to love cooking.

I inhale the air, heavy with garlic and rosemary, and it feels like being ten years old again—coming home after practice and having a warm homecooked meal.

When I finish slicing, I set the knife down and pull the digital scale closer to me.

Mom doesn’t say anything—she never really does anymore—but I catch the tiny sigh she lets out when I tare the scale and start transferring the peppers one handful at a time into the stainless steel bowl. One hundred grams of peppers. One twenty of onions. I make a mental note to log it later.

“Still tracking every gram?” she asks, arching a brow my way.

I glance over and shrug. “It’s habit.”

“It’s Sunday,” she says with a shake of her head. “You’re allowed to eat like a human being today.”

“I am,” I tell her. “Just a human who likes knowing exactly what goes into his body before a game.”

She rolls her eyes but doesn’t push it.

Dad walks in right on cue, grocery bags in hand, and heads straight for Mom, pressing a kiss to her temple, before leaning over the stove to inhale. “Smells good in here.”

She swats at his chest, but there’s a smile tugging at her mouth.

He props himself against the counter, his gaze sliding to me. “She’s worrying again?”